But here was a whole community of women—most of them young, and several of them a lot prettier than I was—who didn’t even want to be married, who had chosen not to be married because there was something else they wanted even more: to be devoted servants of Jesus—devoted to him just as much as being married to him! It wouldn’t be right for them to think of themselves as his wife, even though they considered him their husband. But the word I had heard them use was handmaiden. They were Christ’s handmaidens, his servants, and he was their Master, their protector . . . their only love.
It struck a deep chord in me. This was a level of devotion and commitment and love to Jesus beyond any I had ever seen before. Faith was not something these women did just on Sunday. It was not something that concerned only their minds and what they thought was true about God and the Bible and spiritual things. This was real life, daily life. They had given themselves to him completely—minds, hearts, hands, feet . . . everything. They had given their whole lives to serve him. They had kept nothing back for themselves—not even their own clothes! They had no money. They had left their families. Everything! They had no future apart from him.
I thought of Almeda. She had been my closest friend, and much of what I thought, even the person I was inside, had been influenced by her. And yet even her life wasn’t devoted to Jesus in the same way as I saw here. Maybe on the inside it was, but on the outside she still ran her business and thought about family things.
I didn’t have any critical feelings toward Almeda. She had done more for me than I ever thought any person could do for another, and I loved her so much! But her life as a Christian was very different from the lives of the sisters at the convent.
As I thought about it, I realized that, except for Sister Janette, the sisters didn’t talk as much about spiritual things as Almeda did. They just went about their work and said their prayers and had their Masses without talking too much about it. So I could see that even in living a more normal life, Almeda’s openness to talk about spiritual things had helped me understand more about them than I might have been able to.
As I pondered my future and thought about Almeda, I began to wonder what it all had to do with me. What kind of woman did I want to be? Everything I saw here in this life of separation from the world and devotion to the Lord brought out from within me deep feelings of wanting to be part of it myself.
I felt as if one part of me was considering what it would be like to become a nun. The question of becoming a Catholic never occurred to me, but only what it would be like to live this way, to join an order or a convent, to live with other women dedicated to God. At the same time, another part of me would remember my life back home at Miracle Springs and my family and would immediately think that the very thought of my joining a convent was absurd.
But I was twenty-six years old, after all—and perhaps it was time I found a new home. Maybe God didn’t intend for me to go back to Miracle Springs. Maybe he had led me here to be part of this convent, and that’s why he had kept me unmarried all this time. Could this be where I belonged now?
It was very confusing. I had never experienced such thoughts before. I had never thought of my life much beyond the landscape of it I could see at present. Now I was straining to look past the horizon, asking myself what purpose there might be for my future.
But even in the midst of my confusion and unsettledness, the idea held something wonderfully exciting and exhilarating. I thought about living a life completely in the hands of Jesus and no one else, doing nothing but his work, thinking nothing but his thoughts, being with people who were committed to the same purposes and goals. What a life that would be! What was writing, what was marriage, what even was an invitation to the White House alongside that?
The thought of the White House—and the President’s invitation—drew me up short. It was already the end of June, and I had said I would be at the White House before the month’s end.
Yet I was reluctant to leave the convent—to leave behind the peaceful calmness of this place, to leave the sisters, and their focus on commitment to Christ.
Could it be that God really was calling me to stay? I had to decide soon . . . but how could I know for sure?
I thought and prayed about it for two or three days. All I could think of was the single question: Was I supposed to be part of this life I saw at the convent . . . perhaps some purpose here for me beyond just a casual visit of a few days?
As I walked through the fields and countryside, a quiet sense of deep calm gradually stole over me as I reflected and asked God all these questions. Before long my thoughts became occupied, not just with what I ought to do, but with God himself. I became aware of his presence, as if Jesus himself were walking along right beside me.
Even though I was alone and far from home, and wondering about myself and my life and my future, I felt as if God had wrapped himself around me like a cloak, giving me his love and protection.
I had never been married, so I didn’t know what feelings a wife might have toward her husband. But I knew what it was like to feel Pa’s care and protection watching over us all, and I remembered how I felt when I was very young, lying in bed on a winter night, knowing that Ma was in the other room, tending the fire and watching over all of us.
This feeling of God’s closeness was even more real than those memories. All I could think of was wanting to give more of myself to him, wanting to be totally his, wanting to be one with him, even in a deeper way than a wife gives herself to a husband. I could think of nothing so wonderful as being his . . . forever and completely!
Finally, on one of my long walks, I found myself a mile from the convent, walking through a little grove of trees. As I came out of the wooded area, a little clearing opened in front of me, gently rising upward toward a knoll in the distance, where a great oak tree stood. Somehow it reminded me of the hill overlooking Miracle Springs, or the mountains where I had ridden Raspberry early on the morning of my twenty-first birthday. I always felt best able to hear God when I was alone in the country, someplace high.
As I came out of that wood, and my eyes fell on that oak tree in the distance, and with my thoughts full of God’s love and care for me, suddenly a great joy welled up within my heart as though I could no longer contain it. It was a happiness just in being alive, in being in God’s hands, in being his daughter and knowing that he loved me and had a good life for me to live with him . . . whatever that life might be. I felt as though my heart would burst for very ecstasy!
I ran straight to the oak tree, then jumped up and grabbed its lowest branch, swinging back and forth for a minute. Then I let go and fell to the ground, laughing and panting at the same time.
I breathed in the warm afternoon air deeply and leaned my back up against the tree. A deep quiet settled over me, as I imagine Moses must have felt when looking on the burning bush. A hush descended over the whole little meadow and knoll. I heard no sound, not even a bird or a breath of wind. I sensed that the Lord himself was everywhere, calming and stilling and quieting the grass and the leaves of the tree and the very air itself.
Then from within me I found prayers rising up, and I began speaking to Jesus as if he were right there.
“God,” I said, “I do so want to be yours . . . completely.” The words weren’t many, but they said everything that had been building up within me for days, perhaps even for years. I had prayed such prayers before, but something was different this time. Was it that I was older? Was it that I was so far from home? Was it that I was doing something I’d never dreamed of doing—going to visit the President?
Maybe it was all those things. All I know is that I had never felt such a complete abandonment to God’s control, keeping nothing back for myself. And soon I found myself telling him even more of what was in my heart.
“Whatever you want for me, Lord,” I said, “that is what I want. Whatever future you have for me, whether as a writer or not, whether married or not—I will be happy just to know I am with you. I
will do whatever you want me to do, Father. Let me just know that I am yours, as completely as Sister Janette and Sister Jane and the others are yours. I want to be your bride as they are, and to serve your people and to work for unity as they do. Oh, God, use me and fill me with yourself, and let me be as happy and content as they are! If you want me to remain here with them, if you want me to become a nun, it would give my heart joy to do so. I am devoted to you, Lord Jesus. Let me love you and serve you. And if you want me to continue to write, speak to me about what you would have me say.”
My words trailed away and finally stopped, but my thoughts did not. I found myself continuing on, talking silently with Jesus, turning first one thing, then another over and over in my mind, and then handing it to him and saying, “Here, this belongs to you now.” Everything I thought about—my friendships and relationships, even things that I couldn’t see yet, like this trip east and what would become of it, what I should write, whether I should marry or be single, where to live—everything, one by one, I gave to him.
I don’t know how long I sat there. It might have been ten minutes, or it might have been two hours. I lost all track of time. It must have been quite a while, though, because when I again became aware of myself sitting there under the great oak, the sun was a lot farther down toward the western horizon than it was when I had left the convent.
And I found myself quiet again—quiet inside. All the words were gone, as if the well of my thoughts had run dry. I had given everything over to Jesus, and I had a quiet, almost empty feeling. But the emptiness I felt was an emptiness of self, not anything else. I felt marvelously full of his love.
When I finally rose up from the ground, I stood and took a deep breath. I had not been aware of it at the time, but my tears had been flowing as I’d been sitting there. They were certainly not tears of sadness, nor were they tears of pure happiness. Maybe there was a bit of a lonely feeling, a knowledge that my life wasn’t my own anymore. Not only had I given over to the Lord the external concerns of my life, I had also given him something else. I had given him me, and everything I was!
As odd as it may sound, I felt almost married to Christ, as Sister Janette had talked about. I had given myself completely to him, as a wife does when she marries her husband, as Almeda did with Pa. I had given my heart to God, and no matter what else ever happened in my life, nothing could change that, or make me take it back. If I never married, I knew after this day that I would never be sorry about it. I also felt like a daughter feels when her father is there to take care of everything.
I got up and stood for a moment beside the great tree. All at once I became aware of a sound—a low, rumbling, thunderous noise, yet the sky was clear.
Then I saw the first rider and realized that what I had heard were horses’ hooves.
He was followed not by a second rider, as in a single column, but by a massive horde of riders, all dressed in dark blue, probably ten or more abreast, and galloping hard. The thundering blue column was maybe two hundred or so yards from me, across several more fields, and they were riding west.
I stood mesmerized, watching them gallop past in the distance. Now and then a cry would go up, a yell to a horse, a commander’s shout. But mostly I heard only the deep sound of hundreds of horses rumbling by. I could feel the ground shaking under my feet as I watched. One of the riders, following right behind the leader, carried a flag which waved silently in the air above him. It was the United States flag, and the blue of their uniforms was that of the Union army.
I gave a little shudder and felt suddenly cold, even though the day was a warm one.
I had never seen soldiers since the day Mr. Grant had visited Miracle Springs so many years ago. That had been a happy day. The uniforms had been bright and colorful, and the men wore them so proudly. But this day was different, and the uniforms were those of an army at war.
I watched, and then as suddenly as they had appeared, they were gone, followed by the retreating sounds of the last of the horses, until once more I was left alone in the field.
Slowly I began making my way back toward the convent, and gradually my thoughts returned to the time I had spent praying under the oak tree. Before long I had forgotten about the riders altogether, and the mood of calm serenity and peacefulness stole over me again. The noisy intrusion had not disturbed the deep sense of having abandoned myself completely to someone I loved in the depths of my being. I had the strong feeling that this was a day I would never forget, that what I’d done out there under the oak tree was something that would change my life no matter where my steps took me in future years.
Chapter 14
The War Again!
The minute I got back to the convent from my walk, things started to happen rapidly. In the midst of my quiet communion with Jesus, unanticipated events came crashing in upon me. I found myself learning again that high lofty things in your mind and heart have to get down and mix with the dirt under your feet and the work of your hands or they don’t mean much in the end. The minute you have some revelation of truth in your mind, or some spiritual experience with the Lord in your heart, God throws you into something you have to do with your hands and feet. It seems he doesn’t want us to spend too much time sitting around just thinking about him without doing something about it.
“Corrie, Corrie!” I heard a voice shouting frantically at me as I approached the convent. “Where have you been? We’ve been looking all over for you!”
I looked up in the middle of my reverie to see Sister Janette running toward me. Behind her I could see all the other sisters scurrying and running about. Two of them were hitching up one of the wagons. Sister Jane was just coming out of the stable with one of the horses, and all the others were carrying supplies and loading them into both wagons.
I quickened my pace and hurried toward them. “What . . . what is it?” I said as Sister Janette ran up to me.
“Word has just come to us of dreadful fighting,” she said. “Some soldiers were just through here—”
“I saw hundreds riding by out where I was, too,” I said.
“There were only a dozen or so who stopped here,” she said. “They were on their way to rejoin their regiment, but were looking for food and boots.”
“What did they say?”
“That the Confederate army had invaded the North and that they had to stop them, and that terrible fighting had already started. It’s not far from here—across the river, about forty miles west, outside of a little town called Gettysburg.”
“What are you doing?” I asked, glancing around again at all the activity and bustle.
“We’re going there,” she replied. “It will take us a day to reach the battle, so we must be off without delay.”
“Going there. . . ?” I repeated. I don’t know if I was shocked or afraid, or merely surprised.
“Yes,” she said, and by now we had turned back and were walking toward the others. “They are sure to need our help. There isn’t a moment to lose!”
Now I saw what the nuns were piling into the wagons—blankets and water, medical supplies, bandages, alcohol, as well as food and provisions for themselves.
“What . . . what will you do?” I said, taking a handful of blankets and a doctor’s kit from one of the sisters and lifting it up to Sister Janette, who had climbed up into the wagon to stow in the provisions.
“Whatever is necessary. Nuns have to do anything God sends our way, you know. We have two nurses among us—they will tell us what to do. And willing, tender hands and loving words do more sometimes to comfort the sick and wounded and dying than any amount of medical knowledge.”
“The dying!” I gasped. I don’t suppose the full reality of what Sister Janette was saying had yet sunk into me.
“There is a terrible war going on, Corrie. Many, many young men are dying, but perhaps we can help a few survive, and ease the final moments of others with words of hope and love. It’s Christ’s work, Corrie, and we must be about it, as he is always about i
t.”
She glanced up and paused in her work for a moment. Her eyes met mine, and I could tell she knew I was shocked and bewildered and frightened by this sudden intrusion of the war so close to our lives. In that moment I felt so naive, so like a child again, and saw such a difference in Sister Janette’s eyes. She was so calm, so at peace in the midst of the commotion, so unafraid of the danger, and so confident that the Lord would take care of his handmaidens. There was no fear in her voice, only the desire to be about the same work that her Master was doing to meet the needs of men.
“Sister Mary will be staying here to watch over the convent and tend the animals,” she said after a brief pause. “You will be fine with her, but I wanted to see you before we left.”
She paused again, then reached out and gave my hand a squeeze. “Corrie,” she said, “I am so thankful to the Lord for sending you here. I am so glad to know you. I hope you will remain until our return, though it could easily be three or four days. So if you do have to continue your journey, Sister Mary will be able to make arrangements for you to meet the train.”
I returned her gaze, and then without even thinking what I was saying, I found myself blurting out: “No, I’m not going to continue just yet. I’m . . . I’m going with you!”
Chapter 15
Gettysburg
The war hadn’t been going as well for the South as they had hoped. At first it seemed that the Confederacy would win over the Union in a year or less. But by the middle of 1863, the tide was gradually shifting.
Only two months before, in May, the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia, under General Robert E. Lee, had struck one of their strongest victories against the Federal Army at Chancellorsville. Yet the victory greatly weakened Lee’s army. And the Union forces, with far more manpower and resources to draw upon, was able to recover itself much more quickly. By summer, Lee’s Virginia army was still weak, while the Union’s forces in the North had recuperated from the loss.
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